


Butterball

by Robin Hood (kjack89)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Absurd, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Butterball Hotline, Cooking, Crack Treated Seriously, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Phone Conversations, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 21:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13396803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/Robin%20Hood
Summary: Rafael Barba is 45 years old.Rafael Barba graduated Harvard Law School at the top of his class, and has gone on to a successful career in both the private and public sectors.Rafael Barba has been known to make both perps and defense attorneyscryin the courtroom.And Rafael Barba is currently hiding in the bathroom, on hold with the Butterball Hotline, and praying that his mother and assorted familial guests don’t decide to check on him in the kitchen.





	Butterball

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barbaXcarisi (barbaXbenson)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaXbenson/gifts), [tobeconspicuous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconspicuous/gifts).



> It's not Thanksgiving, and this entire thing is ridiculous, but..
> 
> tobeconspicuous sent me an absurd prompt.
> 
> barbaxcarisi followed it up with an absurd response.
> 
> Naturally, I had to write it.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Rafael Barba is 45 years old.

Rafael Barba graduated Harvard Law School at the top of his class, and has gone on to a successful career in both the private and public sectors.

Rafael Barba has been known to make both perps and defense attorneys _cry_ in the courtroom.

And Rafael Barba is currently hiding in the bathroom, on hold with the Butterball Hotline, and praying that his mother and assorted familial guests don’t decide to check on him in the kitchen.

He doesn’t know how he got in this situation in the first place. Ok, he _knows_ , but some part of his brain refuses to acknowledge the logical connections between his mother crying on the phone about their first Thanksgiving without his grandmother and his brazenly idiotic decision to volunteer to host so that she didn’t have to.

Barba has a never once cooked a turkey. Hell, most nights, he doesn’t even bother cooking himself dinner. Not to mention, not only has he never cooked turkey, but he’s never cooked stuffing, or potatoes, or gravy, or...well, you get the idea.

And while his guests — his mother, a few assorted cousins and great aunts — have brought several pies as well as a few side dishes, the vast majority of the cooking is still Barba’s responsibility.

Including, especially, the turkey.

Hence why he’s called the Butterball Hotline.

Barba watched every episode of _The West Wing_ when it aired, and bought the box-set of the DVDs, even though the entire show was on Netflix. And his only frame of reference for help with a turkey is when President Bartlett had called the Butterball Hotline. Granted, the president actually knew what he was doing and was just proving a point more or less, but Barba still figures it might, miraculously, work for him.

He’s been on hold for ten minutes and is about to hyperventilate and pass out when the horribly cheerful hold music abruptly cuts out, only to be replaced by the worst Staten Island accent Barba’s ever heard. “Hello, welcome to the Butterball Hotline,” the voice says, chipper and cheerful and excited, and God, Barba hates him already.

“Hi,” Barba says, sounding only a fraction as panicked as he feels.

“My name is Sonny,” the voice tells him, and _of course it is_. Barba can practically picture the person that goes along with the name and accent and scowls automatically. “Can I have your name please?”

Barba’s panic increases, and, rather involuntarily, he blurts, “Joe Bethersonton.”

To his surprise, Sonny just chuckles lightly. “ _West Wing_ fan, huh?” he says mildly, and Barba can’t but smile a little at that, his panic receding, just slightly. “Want me to put you down as residing at 11454 Pruder Street in Fargo, North Dakota, as well?”

Barba manages a weak laugh, recognizing the fake address from _The West Wing_. But instead of agreeing, he surprises himself by saying, with far more authority than he feels, “No.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence, until—

“Pruder Way?” Sonny offers, and Barba can hear the smile in his voice. “Or Pruder Lane?”

“Not North Dakota at all,” Barba tells him, though he has no idea why he does. “Manhattan, actually.”

After all, it’s not like it matters.

“Really?” Sonny asks, sounding almost excited at that. “I live in Manhattan, too!”

“With that accent?” Barba asks automatically.

Sonny just chuckles. “Well, I wasn’t _raised_ in Manhattan, but I live and work there now.”

“Lots of business for the Butterball Hotline in Manhattan?” Barba asks, curious despite himself.

“I mean, sure, it’s like, the most densely populated part of the US, isn’t it?” Sonny says. “But, uh, you do realize I don’t work for the Butterball Hotline full-time, right? Not a lot of people cooking turkeys in spring and summer.”

Barba flushes, even though Sonny can’t see him. “I knew that,” he snaps, though he pauses. “But you...are an expert, right?”

“Of course,” Sonny says bracingly. “I’ve won the NYPD turkey cook-off three years running.”

Barba closes his eyes for a brief moment because _of course_. Of _course_ this was his luck. “You’re a cop?” he asks, trying to keep exasperation out of his tone.

“Yeah,” Sonny tell him. “I, uh, I won’t tell you any details unless you really wanna know, because it’s enough to ruin anyone’s appetite, but, uh, yeah. I’m a detective. And, clearly, a turkey expert.”

“Right,” Barba says, more of a grunt than an affirmation, because frankly, it’s just his goddamn luck that the random turkey expert he was supposed to be getting advice from would turn out to be not only a cop, but a Manhattan cop as well, someone Barba could potentially run into in the halls of 1 Hogan Place.

Granted, the likelihood of that is small, but still exists.

For some reason, the thought makes his chest feel inexplicably tight.

“Anyway,” Sonny says, interrupting Barba’s brooding, “what can I help you with today, Mr. Bethersonton?”

Barba hesitates, knowing that it’s not entirely unlikely that Sonny will recognize him name, but feeling like he wants him to know nonetheless. “It’s Rafael, actually,” Barba says. “Rafael Barba.”

“Rafael,” Sonny repeats, and Barba can again hear the smile in his voice. “I like that a lot better than Joe Bethersonton anyway.”

Barba laughs lightly and shakes his head. “Anyway,” he says, “I, uh, I need your help cooking the turkey for Thanksgiving.”

Sonny’s silent for a moment before saying patiently, “Well, no shit.”

Barba’s so surprised he almost drops his phone. “Are you allowed to say that?” he demands, and Sonny laughs.

“I mean, probably not, but what are they gonna do, fire me from a volunteer position?” Barba just laughs, an actual genuine laugh, and he can hear the grin in Sonny’s voice as he continues, “But seriously, uh, anything in particular with cooking the turkey that you need help with?”

“Uh,” Barba says, cracking the door of the bathroom opening and poking his head out to check that the coast is clear, “pretty much all of it.”

Sonny’s silent again before asking, “I should get myself some coffee, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably,” Barba sighs as he heads back into his kitchen and stares forlornly at the bird carcass sitting on his kitchen counter. “I think I’m going to open some wine.”

They’re both silent before saying in unison, “Cheers to that.”

* * *

 

“But why call it stuffing if it’s not stuffed inside the turkey?” Barba asks, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he carefully places the turkey inside the oven.

“Technically it’s not stuffing,” Sonny tells him. “It’s dressing if it’s not stuffed inside, but the components are exactly the same. And this is gonna be controversial, trust me, but I think it’s better when it’s cooked outside of the turkey. It’s easier to control the moisture and keep it from drying out.”

Barba peers closely at the turkey before reluctantly closing the over door. “Well, I trust you,” he sighs, pouring himself another glass of wine and making a sad noise in his throat when he realizes the bottle is empty.

“Did you finish the bottle already?” Sonny asks, sounding amused.

“Maybe,” Barba says, grabbing another bottle of pinot noir rosé and rooting in a drawer for the corkscrew.

Sonny laughs lightly, and Barba can practically see him shaking his head, maybe even rolling his eyes. “Anyway, now that the bird’s in, you gotta let it cook for four hours, ok? And make sure to baste it, but remember what I told you — use a brush, not the baster. You wanna just lightly _kiss_ the bird, ok?”

“I got it, I got it,” Barba grumbles.

“Great, well, if you’re satisfied with the help you’ve received, Mr. Barba—”

“Hang on,” Barba practically squawks, almost dropping his glass of wine. “You’re not hanging up on me?”

Sonny paused. “I mean, it is the _Butterball_ hotline, and as far as the turkey goes, you’re pretty much done, so…”

“With the turkey, sure, but what about the stuffing or dressing or whatever?” Barba asks, panicked. “And the mashed potatoes? And the green bean casserole? And — honestly, we’ve reached the end of my knowledge of Thanksgiving side dishes, but—”

Sonny cuts him off, his voice soft and reassuring. “I mean, look, technically, I’m supposed to hang up when you’ve got the turkey sorted, because this is a volume industry, you know? But, uh, I think I can make an exception. Just this once.”

Barba lets out a breath he hasn’t even realized he’s been holding. “Thank you,” he says, honestly.

“I’m not doing it for you,” Sonny tells him quickly — a little too quickly. “I don’t want your guests to get food poisoning or something.”

“I’d laugh at that if I hadn’t already had that thought three times today,” Barba says dryly.

Sonny just laughs. “In any case, let’s start with the potatoes and go from there. Are the potatoes cleaned and peeled?”

“Um,” Barba says, staring at his counter. “Maybe?”

“It’s pretty much a yes or no question,” Sonny says, sounding confused. “Did you clean and peel them?”

“Well, no,” Barba says, “but I also didn’t somehow fit them inside the box either?”

Sonny sighs heavily, and now Barba can practically picture him pinching his nose. “You’re using instant potatoes?”

Barba rolls his eyes. “I can hear the judgement in your tone, and you should save it for someone who cares,” he says snippily. “There’s nothing wrong with instant potatoes.” He eyes the box warily. “At least, I hope.”

Sonny laughs again. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with it,” he assures Barba. “But, uh, you don’t need to worry about making them now. Pretty sure they’ll turn into sawdust if you cook ‘em four hours ahead of time.”

“Fair enough,” Barba says, setting the box of potato flakes back on the counter. “So what should I work on instead?”

“Let’s get the stuffing ready to go and then go from there,” Sonny says.

“Dressing,” Barba corrects him automatically.

Sonny sighs again. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s get the _dressing_ ready.”

* * *

 

“I don’t want to say it,” Barba says reluctantly. “If I say it, it’ll make it feel too real.”

“Say it,” Sonny urges. “C’mon, you’ve earned it.”

Barba sighs. “Fine,” he says, though he hesitates for a moment before finally admitting, “It looks good. Perfect, in fact. Golden-brown, juicy, everything a turkey should be.”

“See?” Sonny practically crows, and Barba can almost feel the brightness from his smile, even through his phone. “Look at that. I’m proud of you, Rafael. You did good.”

“You can’t even see it,” Barba chuckles, though he’s grinning as well, feeling almost a little proud of himself.

“Text me a picture,” Sonny suggests.

Barba hesitates for a second, feeling the breath catch in his throat and then instantly feeling like an idiot for it. “I can do that,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels. “But I’d need your number.”

“Sure,” Sonny says easily. “It’s 718-555-0188.” He pauses. “You got that?”

“Yeah,” Barba says, having scribbled the number down on a spare legal pad. “Yeah, I got it.”

Sonny clears his throat. “Well, Rafael,” he says. “The past four hours have been, uh…”

“Painful?” Barba supplies wryly.

Sonny laughs. “I was gonna say fun, so, uh, take of that what you will. But dinner’s ready now, and you have guests you should see to.”

Though Barba nods, he pauses, sudden realization cutting through the good mood that’s been built up over the past four hours, a good mood built in large part from the pleasure of Sonny’s company, even just through the phone. “What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?” Carisi asks, sounding confused.

“Why aren’t you having dinner with your family?” Barba asks, having heard all about the extended Carisi clan over the past few hours — Sonny seemed incapable of offering cooking advice without peppering it with some family anecdote.

“Oh.”

The single syllable sounds heavier and sadder than anything Sonny has said to him, and Barba’s heart clenches in his chest. “You don’t have to tell me,” Barba blurts. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Sonny sighs. “No, it’s fine,” he says, though he doesn’t sound it. “I’ve made my peace with it.” He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’m not invited to my family’s Thanksgiving anymore. Not since I came out. And since there’s, uh, not much point in making Thanksgiving dinner for one, that’s why I volunteer for the hotline. I like helping people, and since most food pantries and homeless shelters have an overabundance of volunteers on Thanksgiving, I figured this was something I could do that I’m actually good at.”

“I’m sorry,” Barba offers, meaning it more than he can say.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Sonny says dismissively. “My nonna always dries the turkey out anyway.” He pauses before adding, his light tone sounding forced, “But seriously, enjoy your Thanksgiving, Rafael. And make sure to send me a picture of the turkey.”

Barba laughs lightly. “I will,” he promises.

“Good,” Sonny says. “Then the next time I see you at 1 Hogan Place I can have you autograph it.”

Barba feels his heart stutter in his chest. “You…” he starts, his mouth dry. “You know who I am?”

As if sensing his mistake, Sonny blurts, “No! I mean, yeah, sure, I know your name or whatever. I mean— fuck.”

“Still pretty sure you’re not allowed to say that,” Barba says automatically.

Sonny makes a noise that might have been something like a groan, low in his throat. “Sorry, Counselor,” he says, and Barba can tell that he genuinely means it. “I, uh, I recognized your name. I work homicide at the moment, but I’ve had a few cases that have ended up getting bumped to SVU, and, uh, you’re kinda renowned in that world.”

Barba clears his throat, his cheeks feeling unreasonably warm. “I trust you’re not going to spread it around the precinct that the renowned Rafael Barba doesn’t know how to cook a turkey?”

“So long as you don’t spread it around 1PP that homicide detective Sonny Carisi is queer,” Sonny says, a little sharply.

“Well, no shit,” Barba says, purposefully echoing Carisi’s words from earlier, and it has its desired effect as Sonny laughs, just a little. “After all, what’s that they say about people in glass houses?”

“Oh,” Sonny says, sounding surprised. “You mean, you…?”

“Yeah,” Barba says shortly. “Which is also not a topic of conversation I’d like spread around.”

Sonny laughs once more. “Well, you said it, Counselor — glass houses, and all.”

Barba manages a light chuckle. “True enough,” he says, hesitating before adding, a little awkwardly, “Well, I think the turkey has rested for long enough, meaning I need to take a picture for you and then carve it.”

“Of course,” Sonny says smoothly. “Well, thanks for the, uh, the most amusing four hours I think I’ve spent working on this hotline recently. And I truly hope the turkey is everything I talked it up to be.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Barba assures him. “Thank _you_ , Sonny, for everything. I couldn’t have done it with you.”

“Well, you probably could’ve googled it and been fine, but I’m gonna take the compliment for what it is,” Sonny says easily. “Happy Thanksgiving, Counselor.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Sonny,” Barba says, before hanging up.

He takes a deep breath, staring at the perfectly golden-brown turkey, and then pulls up the camera on his phone and takes a picture. _Thanks again_ , he captions it before sending it off to Sonny before carving the turkey.

He’s halfway through the meal, listening to his cousin tell some inane story that he frankly couldn’t care about if she paid him to, when his phone vibrates, and he digs it out of his pocket and looks down at the message. _No problem, Counselor. Have a good Thanksgiving!_

Barba hesitates.

He should let it go, let the four hours he spent on the phone with an NYPD detective walking him through the intricacies of basting a turkey pass into memory without comment, but the fact of the matter is, he doesn’t want to.

The last four hours were some of the best hours of his life recently.

And he’s well aware how pathetic that is.

So instead, he types in response, _You should try some for yourself. I think you’d be impressed_.

 _Tempting_ , Sonny responds, not even a minute later. _Wish that I could_.

 _You can. My family’s leaving in an hour. You should come over when you’re done on the hotline_.

Barba holds his breath when he sends it, worried he’s read way too far into things, that the nice detective on the other end of the phone was polite purely because it was his job to be.

And when Sonny doesn’t respond right away, his heart sinks so far he’s pretty sure it’s languishing somewhere around his knees.

Then his phone buzzes again.

 _I’d like that_ , Sonny says.

 _Great_ , Barba texts back, relief in every keystroke and before he can change his mind and decide this is a bad idea, texting his address and adding, _See you soon._

 _You bet,_ Sonny says. _Can’t wait_.

And as Barba digs into his perfectly cooked turkey, he can’t help but agree with the sentiment.

He can’t wait, either.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cold Turkey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13507098) by [RoadrunnerGER](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoadrunnerGER/pseuds/RoadrunnerGER)
  * [Turkey Brown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063895) by [AHumanFemale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHumanFemale/pseuds/AHumanFemale), [ships_to_sail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail)




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